


we were just kids

by stover



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Depression, Gen, Haunting, Mental Health Issues, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stover/pseuds/stover
Summary: After death, the ghost of a dead soldier haunts one of his comrades.





	we were just kids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dwreed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwreed/gifts).



> Written for a community secret-santa event. 
> 
> ~~_this is nothing at all what you requested, but you're getting it regardless :)_ ~~

The party is over by the time Keith finally shows up. Inside, everything is a mess; his first step inside is a sordid meeting between the sole of his boot and a squishy mess of whatever he just stepped in. He looks down and picks his foot up to reveal half a slice of pizza. He puts his foot down and shudders. He’s glad he doesn’t live here anymore.

Some kind of crooning voice lilts gently in song. A muffled twang of soft guitar music filters through the walls. He thinks it’s coming from the guest room  _ (that’s what it’s called now,  _ _ after he was gone _ _ )  _ and treads through the litter of plastic cups on the floor. There’s a few splashes of liquor staining the flooring, tricking out of empty, upturned cups and leaving sticky, wet trails. He’s careful not to step on them, even if it doesn’t matter now if he does;  his boots don’t get fucked up anymore. Even still, he walks over the tiny spills and side-steps the micro-dots of… whatever everyone was drinking, leaving the kitchen and turning into the hallway.

That’s where he finds Lance. He’s laying on the floor, slumped outside the door to his own bedroom.  One peek inside the room shows some strange folks tangled in Lance’s bed. 

_ Ugh,  _ Keith groans in disgust, nose wrinkling,  _ What the fuck? _

There’s some weird sensation pulling at his left shin. He stops snooping to look down. Lance, eyes squinting,  tries to swat at his leg.  The movement stops and Lance’s hand stills. Slowly, Lance looks up. Keith watches Lance go cross-eyed from trying to focus on his face.

“…’zat you?” Lance asks, trying to grab his leg again.  It doesn’t work and Lance wobbles forward a little, his eyes widening a bit to drop down to focus intently at a spot on the floor. His chest and shoulders shake and his jaw twitches. Keith thinks Lance is about to hurl.

When Lance’s lips part, the only thing that comes out is a loud, croaking belch. The silence that follows is unbelievably still. Then, Lance starts to laugh. The sound vomits out of his throat first as a bubbling giggle, then as a bellowing noise, heavy and loud and extra. It’s a rich and lively sound—a harrowing reminder that, while he’s glad he doesn’t live here anymore, he still wants to. He’d do anything to live here again.

Lance has no idea. He’s just laughing, wiping tears from his eyes with one hand and clutching his stomach with the other. He throws his head back, trying to gulp in air in the midst of hysteria, and that’s when he falls back and knocks his head on the floor.

_ Careful, idiot, _ Keith says,  _ You wanna end up in the ER drunk off your ass? Have some dignity. _

Something in Lance’s gaze shifts. He looks up at Keith without looking at him, not really, and in a soft, quiet voice, he says, “I want Hunk.” 

Keith frowns.

Lance’s brow furrows and he tries to get up, turning on his side. “I wanna see Hunk. Where’s Hunk?”

_ He’s gone,  _ Keith just says, and watches Lance carefully.

The furrow in Lance’s brow grows deeper. “Oh. Oh, right. He went with the others. He’s gone.” 

Keith watches Lance stare dead ahead at a blank wall, laying on his side on the hallway in front of his locked bedroom in his own apartment. Lance doesn’t say anything else after that, and Keith wonders if he’s, maybe, not okay. But then Lance speaks again,

“I wish he was still here.”

_ Me too, _ Keith says, and he tries to pat Lance’s shoulder. It’s not the best consoling pat in the world, but then again, nothing he does these days is really done the way it should.

Lance’s shoulder jerks back abruptly, and then he’s sitting up so fast Keith swears he could feel something knocking against his forehead. His eyes widen, the look turning raw with desperate shock. “Shit, you— Keith, you’re—”

Keith never hears the rest, because at that moment some stranger opens the door and Keith feels himself being pulled away into a soft velvet of darkness.

 

* * *

 

The next time he wakes, he’s in the middle of an aisle. The lights are bright, a stark contrast to where he’s been  _ (and where has he been, he wonders) _ . He doesn’t squint or raise a hand to shade his eyes until he can adjust; he doesn’t need to anymore; it doesn’t work like that, not anymore.

So he stands in the aisle, watching folks pass it on by with carts or baskets behind them. They whirr as they follow patrons along, programmed to follow the blinking bracelet each patron has around their wrist. They’re all unique pairs, activated when a coin is inserted into the locking mechanism—the part you detach to wrap around your waist—and releases the cart or basket from a holder. They’re a lot quieter than what he remembers, and the customized, self-operated baskets for folks too busy to do their own food shopping aren’t crashing into things and knocking down an entire display of Kraft’s mac & cheese. Then again, he’s comparing these to the ones he used when he first came back home. Traveling the galaxy spoiled him; he was hardly impressed with these clunky inventions and opted instead for a squeaking, rattling cart.

But times change. People change. And as they change, old habits are unlearned; new habits are learned, and they integrate seamlessly until they, too, become old… et cetera, et cetera.

Always, though, there are a few things that stay constant no matter how much of the world transforms to adapt to the new pace, the new locale, the new norm. The value of truth, the necessity of love, the right of dignity, and the desire for community. These don’t change; or, we believe strongly that these don’t change. Maybe they do; maybe they change as perspectives change, as beliefs change.

Whatever happens to the constants of the world, he’s certain of one thing: suffering by way of sickness and disease, too, seems to stay a constant, because not even the knowledge of traversing beyond the orbit of Pluto seems to have brought them the know-how to cure a case of the sniffles.

There are more people in this aisle than there should normally be. He thinks it’s because of the eruption that happened two years ago, the one that clouded the skies with thick smoke and ash for months, bringing darkness along as if it were a child in need of comfort. A year passed by like this, and it was only because of the Galaxy Alliance that survival was even an option at all. 

Now, things were fine. They weren’t great, but they weren’t at risk of total annihilation, so. Things were fine—fine enough for people to have the sniffles and not worry about it escalating into something else. Or, maybe they were worried; maybe that’s why this aisle is crowded and the shelves near-emptying by the end of the day.

How does he know how often they empty out? He just does. This isn’t the first time he’s here; he’s not a stranger to this world, even if he doesn’t live here anymore—even if he doesn’t live anywhere anymore, really. 

But why, exactly, is he here? That, he’s not sure of. He’s not usually just here; this isn’t a place he comes to because he’s got nothing else to do  _ (and of that, he has lots of; nothing to do, that is) _ —he’s usually here because Lance is here, and if Lance is here and Keith is here because of Lance, that also means—

But Lance isn’t here. There are about twelve people in the aisle, and none of them look like Lance. Everyone’s too tall, too wide, too short, too young, too—

Ah.

Never mind.

There he is.

Lance blends in with everyone else, looks just like everyone else. At Lance’s side, whooshing gently, is a basket. Keith takes a peek inside—there’s two packs of bacon, two cases of beer, a loaf of white bread, and two packages of pre-sliced sharp cheddar.

He hates sharp cheddar. He hates cheese in general, to be honest. He’s not lactose intolerant—he can drink milk and he can have ice cream and he can have everything else in the sun—but he hates cheese. There’s something about the texture and the way it sticks everywhere in his mouth that he finds disgusting. It’s also how he feels when he looks at Lance, sometimes, but only when he thinks that maybe he’s the reason why Lance is like this now, that maybe he’s to blame.

He’s not, though; really, he’s not. It’s not his fault Lance is a mess. It’s not his fault.

Two bottles of Robitussin gets dumped into the basket. A chirping noise comes from the basket and a light flashes. It’s asking for ID.

“Fucking extra,” Lance mutters, the old slang like a timestamp because nobody says “extra” anymore except for whatever’s left of the neo-millenials. Now, if something’s not cool, the kids say “sa zwek,” just like the Galra do.

Regardless of how ‘uncool’ the regulations around medication are, Lance complies and swipes his ID.

Nothing happens for a few seconds, which makes Lance mutter a curse. The guy next to him looking at sinus medication jumps in alarm and looks this way and that. Then light on the basket flashes red, which happens for a lot of reasons, but mostly when somebody’s buying too much of something that should only be bought in limited quantities. But two bottles is the limit for district B-13, which means… 

Are you getting high off this shit? Keith wants to ask, because that’s what some kids actually used to do a long time ago, before they were launched into space while trapped inside a magic robot lion. But he doesn’t say anything because he’s technically not supposed to be here.

Lance, however, know he’s here. Because he looks over his should right then, as if he’d said something after all. But he hasn’t; he knows he hasn’t. 

He hasn’t said anything, had he?

Lance’s eyes narrow and his face twists. “The fuck you looking at me like that for?” Then, he reaches into his basket and chucks the bottle of medicine at him.

It doesn’t hit him; it hits the teenager standing right behind him instead.

“Sa zwek?!”

Lance throws the second bottle again, at Keith. “Get that motherfucker away from me!” 

The teen steps to the side. The bottle crashes into the boxes of NSAIDs on the middle shelf. The young man’s blue eyes widen. “This place just went and broke, holy shit—”

“Fuck off! Stop following me!” Another bottle is thrown; this one comes off the shelf.

The teen turns to his friends, to the murmuring crowd. He raises his hands in the air and slowly starts stepping away. “Nah, man, I’m out. This is crazy, I don’t got nothing to do with this.”

Lance shoves his basket at the rambling teen. The entire crowd of customers scream. “I’m not talking to you dumb fucks,” he hisses, turning on Keith with an accusing finger, “I’m talking to this fucker right here!”

Keith wants to sink into the floor. Apparate to the next aisle. Teleport. Self-combust. Pass the fuck on, for god’s sakes; he doesn’t want to be here—he doesn’t want to see this.

Heavy footsteps run quickly down from the far end of the aisle. A man in a red shirt and khakis emerges through the crowd. “What’s going on here?”

The crowd answers all sorts of ways. 

“Dude’s cracked.” “He’s talking to himself—” “He needs help.” “Something’s wrong with the shopper!”

Another man in uniform comes over, this time from the other end of the aisle. 

Lance bares his teeth, backing up. “Don’t touch me!” Lance’s back rattles a row of pills.

The workers halt, staring wide-eyed as the bottles of pills shake and almost spill out on the floor.

“Get away from me!” In a large, sweeping motion, the entire row of pills clatters on the floor. A second row of pills comes tumblng out, then footsteps thunder around them as people scatter away, screaming, and people in bright red shirts rush over and then Keith has to watch Lance kicking and cursing and screaming and shouting and then—

And then the shelves need to be re-stocked.

 

* * *

 

The grass looks wet, and cold. He’s in front of a headstone that bears his name— _ KEITH KOGANE _ —and tells him he was 22 when he died. The stone to the left says  _ KATHRYN HOLT  _ was 18 and that  _ HUNK GARRETT  _ was 21.

A snort of laughter escapes him. Forever 21, he thinks, laughing to himself, Hunk’s forever 21. 

That joke is probably twelve years old, now. Lance was the first one to say it. He laughed so hard the first time, he started wheezing and choking. But then he started crying, and then the joke wasn’t so funny anymore.

It’s funny now, because nobody’s crying.

He’s not sure at what point Lance stopped crying when he came to visit every third Friday of October, but it was abrupt and unnatural, like someone had suddenly went into Lance’s body and extracted the part that people used to show grief.

Now, all that happens whenever Lance comes to visit is dead silence. Maybe it’s better, maybe it’s worse. Whatever it is, it keeps Lance normal the whole month. Normal, meaning, he’s functional. He goes out. He goes to museums and city tours. He talks to people, even if nobody really talks back.  _ How are you? Isn’t it amazing how you can see the sky again? Man, I wish I could’ve seen California while it was around. Man, I miss strawberries; hell yeah they totally are as good as they look. _

He’s his regular self in October, chattering away and cracking jokes and smiling and doing everything else that makes him who he is. 

Except ignore the shit out of him. 

In October, Lance doesn’t scream at him; he doesn’t try to talk to him at all. He doesn’t even look at him. Sometimes, he wonders if Lance can’t see him at all in October, whatever the reason. But he catches Lance staring out of the corner of his eye one too many times for him to believe that.

It’s nice. Hard for him, because it’s when he realizes that he’s not there, not really. But Lance is here, in the present. In October, Lance is fine. Not great, but he’s not at risk of total annihilation, so. He’s fine.

He stays fine for a while; a little longer than a month. Things start to get bad in December, during the holidays. And when January comes along… 

But right now, Lance is fine. And that’s good enough for him.

“It’s the medication, if you’re wondering.”

Keith glances around them. There’s no one here, aside from the two of them.

“I don’t take them as often as I should because they make me nauseous.”

Lance sits on the grass with his chin on his hand, his elbow digging into the flesh of his thigh. He’s wearing the same old clothes he has since Keith last saw him—the same thing each time Keith sees him—black shirt, jeans, and that old ratty jacket back when they meant something to the universe. 

“And then I have a few moments and end up in the psych ward. Then I’m back to square one.” He rolls his eyes. “But I try to stay coherent when I come visit the team. You know, just in case.”

_ In case of what? _

Lance looks at him. He stares, hard, for a few seconds, brow furrowed. Then, he shrugs and looks away. “I dunno. Just in case.”

Keith frowns.  _ That’s not fair. _

“Yeah, but,” Lance tugs at the waistband of his jeans, “Nothing’s fair. Get used to it.”

_ Sa zwek. _

Lance cracks a grin. “You have an Empire accent, you know that? Nobody says it like that anymore, that died with the throne. It’s  _ ‘sa zwek,’ _ you gotta soften the consonant sounds. That’s how the New Republic accent works. Soften everything up. Be gentle, and all that.”

_ …Sa schwek. _

“Yeah! That’s closer. Too soft, though. Still gotta sound like the Galra, my man. Not too Galra. You should do it just fine, sala’an, you’re half Galra.”

_ Sala’an? _

“Yeah, that’s—Shoot, I forget where it comes from. I think it’s the Cuzaris. Maybe. Or the Daxas. I don’t remember. It’s like bro.”

_ Oh. Thanks. …I guess. _

“Yeah, no problem. Anytime.”

He watches Lance stare at the headstones, the three that are here. Shiro’s isn’t here; he’s still around, somewhere. Anywhere. Nobody’s sure where, exactly, but they can sure sound like they know— _ “East of the Andromeda galaxy, past the Fortuna cluster and next to the Ganderbrite colonies—the 44th Central Command of the Tjarok military.” _

He bets not even half the people who learned to recite that perfectly won’t be able to tell you what a Ganderbrite colony is, or what the Tjarok military’s doing on ex-Empire territory. Keith knows where it is—he can tell you it doesn’t exist anymore, since he blew it all up.

_ We, _ he has to correct himself,  _ We _ blew it all up.

Not by choice. They had to get out of there. The whole place was rigged; it was a trap and they’d walked right into it. The Empire knew the Paladins of Voltron wouldn’t turn a blind eye to a distress signal. So they’d walked into a trap and right there, everything had—

His brow furrows. But  _ we _ blew it up, he rationalizes slowly,  _ We _ blew it up, not the Galra.  _ We _ did. He forces himself to think; he forces his mind through a strainer, squeezing out everything he knows to be truth and withholding everything else that didn’t matter. We blew it up. We blew it up because we had no choice; we had to escape. We lost Pidge, we lost Hunk, we lost Coran. We had civilians; we had to leave, so we—

Chains. Heavy, rough in texture—He remembers chains, made from black rock his blade couldn’t shatter. They weren’t civilians, they were prisoners. So… Where were they? What did they blow up? How does he know the Ganderbrite clusters were gone?

Colonies. They were colonies. Or clusters? Was it Ganderbrite? Were they in Ganderbrite, or were they in—

“You look like you need to take a shit.”

_ Shut up, _ he snaps, narrowing his eyes,  _ I was _ — _ I was remembering something. _

Lance sneers. “Like how to take a shit?”

_ Shut up, _ he hisses, kicking at him. He wants to knock Lance’s elbow off his leg, make him fumble. But all that happens when he kicks is his foot going right through Lance’s warm body. He freezes. Lance claps a hand over his mouth, a muffled guffaw sneaking past his guarded lips as his eyes crinkle at the corners. Keith can’t wait to hear Lance’s brilliant remark.

“Now you look like you gotta piss  _ and _ take a shit,” is the genius observation.

Keith kicks at the ground with the same foot, irritated when he sees wet sod scattering towards Lance. He can’t touch people, but he can touch the earth? What  _ bullshit. _

"What good is remembering gonna do you? You're dead. It doesn't matter."

Keith kicks more grass and dirt and rocks and hopefully whosever soul chose to integrate with the patch of dirt he's standing on in this goddamn cemetery, because fuck you, Lance, goddamn and fuck you.

"Yo, chill! What if somebody died in that spot hundreds of years ago? What if something decides to haunt me?!"

He stops, incredulous. Lance has gotten up from the ground, holding his arms up to shield his face. He's backed away a few steps from where he stood, standing behind Hunk's gravestone as if their friend was somehow gonna pop right out of the grave to Lance's rescue.

Lance lowers his arms, slowly, his eyes blinking owlishly as if he's wondering why Keith has suddenly stopped his ghostly rampage. His eyes change; something seems to click. His lips create a little 'o.' 

"Oh, right. I already have something haunting me." Lance's eyes narrow. "Why exactly are you haunting me again?"

Keith narrows his eyes, his brow furrowing deeply as he just gives Lance a look.   


Lance seems to get it. "Riiight, right. If you'd known, you wouldn't be here. Right. Gotcha." Then, the strangest thing happens. Lance smiles, and says, "Well, you still got me, and I still got you. Everything’s still good.”

Keith stares at him, wide-eyed and smooth-browed, because, That’s— No it isn’t. Lance, this isn’t— This isn’t normal. This isn’t—

“Well, nothing we did was normal. Who’s to say this isn’t our normal?”

Because everyone else is dead!

Everyone else! Is! Dead!

I have a grave!

A fucking grave!

I’m dead!

I’m supposed to be—

“I know you’re dead, Keith.”

—gone! I’m still here, while nobody else is—

“Well, you can’t know that for sure—”

—around! This! Isn’t! Normal!

“Dude, calm down.”

YOU’RE TALKING TO A DEAD PERSON!

Now, it’s Lance’s turn to frown. Then, a grin spreads slowly across his face. What Keith hears next scares him.

“Yeah? Well, so are you.”


End file.
